Kisses from Hell

by Kristin Cast

  “Let’s see what’s under that blanket, girl.”

  Before she could scream, run, fight, feel, process, he was on her. She landed with a thwack on the wooden porch. Her blanket torn open as he sat on her twisting bare stomach. Four spider fingers fought past her teeth and pinned her tongue.

  “Shh, shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s gonna be fun.”

  Thirteen

  Sol awoke to find the space next to him empty and the sun silent.

  Every room.

  Vacant, alone.

  But the front door

  open.

  “Aurora? Are you out there?”

  New feeling flooded.

  Panic, misery, denial, anguish tore from his stomach, splashed at his feet, and bought Sol to his hands and knees.

  “Nononononononono.” Whispers.

  He crawled to her.

  Innocent, beautiful.

  Her mouth, eyes open. Her body, too white.

  Too changed.

  Only two colors:

  Dirt.

  Blood.

  Brown and red fingerprints painted morbid petals across her slashed frame.

  So much blood.

  Too much blood.

  And a word.

  He saw it as he bundled her back in the blanket.

  She looked so cold, alone.

  She looked so cold, alone…dead.

  A word carved.

  A word carved into a cheek.

  FREAK

  He touched the leathery lettering. She had left him one last gift. Images flicked through his mind.

  Of a man.

  Of a knife.

  Of Below.

  A new emotion began to breed beneath his skin.

  Rage?

  Yes.

  Always.

  He tucked her into his bed.

  Keeping her safe.

  And robotically exited his home and stepped off the edge of the deck.

  Dry leaves crunched under bare feet as he landed.

  Blood, her blood, had dripped a trail of success that led to Below.

  Sol followed. Feet so fast, he flew.

  This man was no more. This lover, friend, companion, shelter, home

  no longer in existence.

  He had died with her.

  I will kill you all.

  Fourteen

  Where the hunters exited, Sol entered. Only one man on guard. Eyes closed, feet propped, watching.

  The tall black figure twisted the guard’s head.

  Off.

  Surprise.

  No noise.

  Only rage. Always rage.

  The Other proceeded to the doorway, feeling along the walls as he went.

  Blind. This is how she felt.

  His throat began to descend to his stomach, and he forced it back.

  Only rage. Always rage.

  He reached the corridor. No one. This was their night. Their time for rest. He possessed too much power, was possessed by too much fury for their sleeping numbers to affect his plan.

  I will help you rest. I will kill you all.

  The nightmare drifted from cave to cave. A twisted shadow stealing life.

  Collared by loss, led by wrath.

  As he coasted through Below searching for more to extinguish,

  he smelled it.

  He smelled her.

  The creature rushed the scent and was greeted by a ticklish laughter. “I knew you’d come. I could feel it. Just like I felt her.”

  The glowing figure twirled a blade in his hands and pressed its flat surface hard down his

  nose

  lips

  tongue.

  Eyes rolled back with every lick. “That freak.”

  The word was barely finished, yet the creature had pounced and pinned its prey. The wall of dirt, hard beneath the man’s shoulders.

  Laughter kept falling.

  “It

  was

  fun.”

  The Other’s grip on the glowing’s shoulder squeezed tighter. Thumbs pushed past flesh, muscle, struck bone. “And so is this.” The Other unleashed his teeth and tore down the man’s face. He ripped through his neck.

  Shucking skin.

  No more laughter.

  Only loss.

  Fifteen

  Blood, death, loss, anguish, rage boiled acid in his stomach. He purged, needing to be empty, and blindly dragged himself back to the opening from where he came.

  He again reached the entrance.

  It had set her free and now confined him.

  The sun was fading, but to this creature, his light was already gone.

  He had nothing

  and yearned for everything.

  A whisper. A name. Floated from the moon and kissed his heart.

  Rheena.

  Sol stepped into the night.

  Hunting Kat

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  I stretched out on the lounge chair in front of our motel room.

  “Basking in the sun, mon chaton?” Marguerite’s French-accented voice sounded behind me. “You have been doing a lot of that lately.”

  “Can’t get sun cancer now.”

  “No, you just like thumbing your nose at the myth.”

  I grinned. “A sunbathing vampire. So Dracula-retro.”

  She sighed. I tilted my head back to look at her as she stepped out the screen door. Like me, Marguerite is a vampire. She’s been one a lot longer, though. Over a hundred years, though she looks twenty, the age when she died. Eternally beautiful. Well, in Marguerite’s case, at least—she’s tiny with blond curls and big blue eyes. I’d thought she was an angel when I first met her. She was my angel, rescuing me from a science experiment and from parents who weren’t my parents at all, but people paid to care for me.

  That was ten years ago. I was sixteen now, and undead for six months. Marguerite had nothing to do with making me a vampire. That was the experiment, plus a bullet to the heart.

  Marguerite had known what I was all along. That’s why she’d taken me. She’d never told me the truth, though. I found out the hard way, waking up on a morgue slab. I understand why she kept it a secret—she wanted me to grow up normal—but I haven’t quite gotten over it. I don’t tell her that. When it comes to feeling guilty, Marguerite doesn’t need any help.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, holding out a travel mug.

  “Not for that.”

  She set it down beside me. I could smell the blood, warmed to body temperature. Like that made a difference.

  “You need to drink, Katiana,” she said.

  “It’s stale. Now that…” I waved at a man three doors down, passed out drunk. “That’s a proper breakfast. Not like he’d notice. He’s already going to have a killer hangover. A missing pint of blood wouldn’t matter.”

  “You are too young to drink alcohol.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “I am serious, Kat. Whatever is in his blood will be in yours. Drugs, alcohol…You have to consider that.”

  “No, I need to consider what I am. A hunter. I need to hunt, Mags. You do.”

  “And so will you, mon chaton, when you are—”

  “Psychologically and emotionally ready.” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice. “But you’re going to talk about it with the other vamps, right? That’s why we’re going to this meeting in New York.”

  “We are going for many reasons.”

  “But you are going to ask them whether I should start hunting.”

  “Yes, I will. Now drink. We still have a long drive.”

  Marguerite went back inside to get ready. I drank the blood. It was like eating store-bought chocolate chip cookies—I could taste hints of what I really wanted, what I craved, but they were hidden under a leaden layer of foul crap.

  As I sipped, I eyed the drunk guy and imagined sinking my fangs into his neck. Imagined his blood, hot and rich. The back of my throat ached so much I could barely gag down my blood-bank breakfast.

  I know I sound l
ike a coldhearted bitch, fantasizing about drinking some guy’s blood, like I’m brutally nonchalant about the whole vampire situation. I’m not. I have my good days. And I have my bad ones, too, when I can’t get out of bed in the morning, when I lie there and think and worry.

  Am I going to be sixteen forever? Marguerite says no, that the genetic modification experiment was supposed to get rid of the eternal youth thing, which when you think about it, isn’t really such a blessing, being one age forever, never able to settle in one place, make friends, get a job, fall in love….

  What if the modifications failed? What if I am sixteen for the next three hundred years? I think about all the things I didn’t get to do before I turned. Things I might never get to do.

  Even if the modifications took, how would that work? I can’t be injured, can’t get sick. Does that mean I’m invulnerable, but not immortal? That I’ll die when I’m a hundred, like everyone else? Or will I live to three or four hundred, like real vampires? If I do, will I keep aging at a normal rate, and turn into some hideous old hag? Marguerite doesn’t have any answers, just keeps saying it will work out, which means she’s just as concerned as I am.

  I try not to think about all that. I’ve got enough to worry about with my life now. Hungering over humans. Drinking blood. Fearing that the Edison Group will find me again. Worrying that I’ll screw up and get caught.

  Even without the Edison Group problem, there’s so much to stress out about. What if I get hit by a transport and the paramedics take me to a hospital where, whoops, suddenly I’m as good as new? What if people figure out I’m a vampire? Would they kill me? Experiment on me? Lock me up? Would I be any better off than if the Edison Group did catch me?

  So, no, I’m not nonchalant about it. I’m dealing. Kind of. Today we were heading to New York to meet other vampires and get some answers about the genetic modifications and about how to handle my situation. So today was definitely going to be a good day.

  As for hunting humans, I’m not nonchalant about that, either. When the time comes, even if it doesn’t have lasting effects on people, I expect I’ll feel guilty about it. Marguerite does. But I still need to hunt. I feel that in my gut, a gnawing restlessness, like when I haven’t done a workout in a while.

  When the feeling gets bad, no amount of canned blood helps. I’ll be walking along and I’ll smell something unbelievably good. I’ll start salivating, stomach growling, and I’ll turn to see, not a plate of freshly baked cookies but a person, maybe even a friend. I can’t describe how that feels. It’s bad. Just bad.

  I finished my drink and went inside. Marguerite was in the bathroom putting on makeup. I perched on the counter, watching her as she applied pale lipstick to a mouth that was already a perfect pink bow.

  “So who’s the hot vampire in New York?” I said. “A tall, dark Napoleonic soldier you met during the Civil War? Sheltered him from the witch hunts? Got separated on the Titanic, each floating off on your own icebergs?”

  “History is not your strongest subject, is it, mon chaton?”

  “I’m improvising. So who is he?”

  “There is no he. I want to look nice for people I have not seen in a while.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I looked in the mirror—yes, unlike Hollywood vampires, I can see my reflection. Beside Marguerite’s fragile porcelain perfection, I always feel big and clumsy. Seeing us together, though, the difference isn’t that obvious. I’m only a few inches taller, and skinny enough that I can snag her designer shirts and leather jackets. No one ever mistakes us for sisters, though. My golden brown hair, green eyes, and lightly bronzed skin guarantee that.

  I reached for her makeup bag. She snatched it away and handed me lip gloss.

  “When you are seventeen,” she said.

  “I may never be seventeen.”

  “Then you will have no need for makeup, will you?”

  I sighed. Marguerite can be unbelievably old-fashioned sometimes. The perils of having a guardian who grew up in the nineteenth century. On this point, though, I don’t really care. I’m a jock, not a cheerleader. Makeup is a pain in the ass. Well, most times. I make an exception for dates. Not that there’d been any of those since I turned. Let a guy nuzzle my neck and he might realize I don’t have a pulse. Marguerite says guys won’t notice, but I’m not ready to take that chance.

  I wandered into the bedroom, picked up the keys and jangled them. “Don’t forget I have my license now. Better hurry or I’ll go to New York without you.”

  She didn’t peek out of the bathroom. Didn’t call after me as I walked out the door. Didn’t even ring my cell as I drove our little rental car from the motel lot. She knew I wasn’t going far. There are days when I like that, knowing she trusts me. Then there are others when I really wish I was a little more rebellious. A little less predictable.

  She probably even knew where I was heading. We’d passed a coffee shop and bakery a few minutes before we stopped for the night, and she’d promised to let me head back in the morning, grab my morning coffee. Vampires don’t need food. We can still eat and drink, though, which helps us fit in. For most, like Marguerite, food doesn’t sit well in their stomachs. Not so with me. That’s one of the modifications that did work, apparently.

  I grabbed an extra-large hazelnut vanilla coffee and a cinnamon bun. Then I headed back, music blasting, pedal to the floor, zooming along the empty Vermont road. Well, close. I had the music moderately loud and I was going about ten kilometers over the speed limit. Five miles over the speed limit, I should say. I’m American, but Marguerite is French Canadian, and we’ve spent most of the past decade in Montreal, so I’m used to the metric system.

  Miles or kilometers, the point was that I wasn’t speeding very much, and I left my coffee and bun untouched beside me until Marguerite was driving. Yes, I can act like a smart-aleck teen, but I rarely break the rules. It’s my upbringing, Marguerite says. The only time my “parents” ever praised me was when I was a model child, tediously well behaved. Being a vampire doesn’t make me a badass. Sadly.

  I’m not a complete wimp, though. So when a pickup came roaring up behind me, I didn’t follow my driving instructor’s teachings and pull over to let him pass. I sped up. He stayed on my bumper, coming so close I could only see his truck’s grille.

  That made me realize just how empty the road was, winding through the foothills, dense trees on either side, a steep embankment down to my right. I hadn’t seen another car since leaving town. Not the place to play road warrior. So I slowed to the speed limit and eased over, giving him plenty of room for passing.

  When he made no move to go by, I slid my cell phone from my pocket. Then the grille disappeared from my rearview mirror as the truck swung into the other lane to pass.

  I glanced in my side mirror. It was only a glance. I had both hands on the wheel. I didn’t drift into his lane. I was sure of it. But the next thing I knew, there was a crunch, metal on metal, and my car shot toward the embankment.

  My throat seized up, brain screeching, brakes screaming along with it as I slammed on the brakes. The car kept going, sailing over the edge.

  It rolled and it kept rolling and all I could do was duck, hands over my head, until there was a bone-jarring crash. And everything went dark.

  I blacked out for only a second. When I came to, the car was still groaning from the impact. I opened my eyes to see a tree in the passenger seat. The car was wrapped around it.

  I reached to undo my seat belt, but I couldn’t twist. A branch had gone through my shoulder and pinned me to the seat. I stared at it. There was a branch through my shoulder. And I couldn’t feel a thing.

  I took a deep breath, reached up, and pulled it out. Took some effort. Vampires don’t get superhuman strength—another myth debunked—and the branch was all the way through the seat, so it required work, but finally I got it free. It left a hole in my shirt, but no blood, obviously. There was a hole in my shoulder, too, but it would seal up.

  I tried
to check out the damage in the mirror. Seeing myself, I let out a yelp and closed my eyes fast. Another deep breath. Then I pulled down the visor and opened the mirror.

  My nose was broken. Smashed nearly flat from an impact I couldn’t remember. My lip was split. And one of my eyes was…not quite in place.

  Oh God. My stomach heaved. I closed my eyes and pressed my palm to the injured eye. It…went back in. I shuddered, stomach spinning.

  I reached up and straightened my nose. As I moved it, I could feel it reforming under my fingers.

  There. All fixed. Now—

  “Hello!” a man’s voice shouted.

  I lowered my head to look out the smashed window. A vehicle was parked at the top of the embankment. The guy who’d run me off the road?

  No. It was a car, not a truck. Two sets of legs stood beside it. They must have seen my car fly off the road.

  That really wasn’t any better. I couldn’t let rescuers find me, not while I still had a hole through my shoulder and God knows what other injuries, all of which would miraculously heal during the ambulance ride to the hospital. This was exactly the sort of scenario I’d feared.

  I stuffed my cell phone into my pocket and grabbed the door handle. My fingers slipped on the wet surface. Coffee, I realized. The whole interior of the car dripped with it.

  Hey, at least it’s not blood.

  I wrenched the handle. Not surprisingly, the door didn’t open. I twisted to get up, so I could kneel on the seat and go out the window.

  My legs wouldn’t move.

  I stared down. They were crushed. Oh God. My legs were crushed.